


Marik Ishtar: The Key to Any Heist?

by Prix



Series: It's Always Sunny in Domino City [6]
Category: Yu-Gi-Oh the Abridged Series, Yu-Gi-Oh! - All Media Types, Yu-Gi-Oh! Duel Monsters (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Choking, Gen, Manipulation, Minor Violence, Pre-Relationship, Protectiveness, Sightseeing, Theft, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-08
Updated: 2018-11-08
Packaged: 2019-08-20 13:38:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16556774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prix/pseuds/Prix
Summary: Bakura's Millennium Ring leads him to what he needs most to accomplish his goals. When it leads him back to Marik, he wonders if he should check the thing's warranty.





	Marik Ishtar: The Key to Any Heist?

**Author's Note:**

> This work is part of a series! See above.

Marik grabbed Bakura by the sleeve about his shoulder and didn’t let go for a while. He led him through the city and into the night. He led him through an ancient church which seemed to give Bakura a moment’s wary pause. He had snarled at it. Marik didn’t really understand. It was a spooky, pretty place, filled with a certain atmosphere of peace with death. He liked that about it. There were other such places – the modern places of death, tombs and mausoleums, and places so ancient that only the dead’s feet seemed to have a claim to walk there. Bakura didn’t seem so tense with the stars and the haze of street lights above him.

 

_Downtown Cairo, Egypt – The following morning._

 

It is morning by the time they are strolling along a main street of modern downtown Cairo. He hasn’t felt the need to sleep, though, and he isn’t sure that what the Bakura he knows is _needs_ sleep.

“Here we are,” he says cheerily. “The museum is around here… _somewhere_ ,” he explains, looking around with widened eyes. He takes in everything at once, too quickly, noticing shops and screens and lights and the displays in all of them.

“You mean you don’t _know_?” Bakura asks with familiar, harsh impatience. Marik doesn’t let it bother him. Much.

“I haven’t had the chance to memorize it all like the _back of my hand_ ,” he replies, feeling a familiar sense of annoyance rise in himself. He doesn’t like it. “I grew up _underground_. In a tomb,” he reminds him.

Bakura glances around them both, calm but skeptical.

“Are you sure you want them to know that?” he asks, frustratingly impassive.

“I don’t care what they know. They are thousands. You are one,” Marik says, lapsing into formality that he learned long ago with or without his consent. He keeps walking, watching Bakura for a moment, then breaks out ahead of him as if he might walk away.

“Wait,” he hears, clear and calm behind him. He stops and looks back, obedient and expectant. “Look, I _know_ ,” Bakura grumbles. It is a simple statement, but the reminder that he _does_ is enough to tempt Marik back into something resembling calm.

“So you should,” he quips while he waits for Bakura to fall back in step with him.

“I am just glad to have found a guide… suitable for this city. This land was far different in my time,” Bakura tells him, now in a lower, privy tone between them.

Marik thrills lightly with satisfaction. He has won again. He knows less than some of his time, and he knows that Bakura is familiar enough with the present world, but he had missed this.

“Why do you want to go to the museum anyway?” he asks, returning to pleasantries whether Bakura likes it or not.

“Homesick,” Bakura replies quickly.

Marik glances over at him and puts his hands into the pockets of the long, sleeveless cardigan he wears. It blows lightly in the air behind him and he pulls the soft, woven fabric tighter. He wonders what brought Bakura all this way. He wonders how he had found him in the square where he had taken up a job in the time since leaving Japan with a clearer grasp on his own mind. He knows there must be a reason. He realizes that his own drive to destroy the Pharaoh has diminished to a sour note of regret that lingers, bitter and cold in the center of his stomach that crawls up his throat only when he has nightmares. He considers whether or not Bakura might have sought out another way to sate his own need to find resolution, so far away from that island country where the Pharaoh lives within his vessel.

“Here we are!” Marik announces when he sees a sign indicating the Museum of Egyptian Antiquities. He takes a few steps ahead of Bakura again, but this time it is to round on him for effect. He out-stretches his arms. “At last we are at the end of your journey.”

However indirectly, Bakura had helped him find his. He can only hope to return the favor, to give him some of the peace he has had over these past, long months.

“Please don’t do that,” Bakura chides him.

Marik deflates a little, lowering his arms by increments.

“Don’t _what_?” he demands.

For some reason, Bakura is looking past him and toward the main entrance of the museum. Then his eyes focus back on him once more.

“On second thought…” Bakura sighs. He gestures toward the entrance. “Lead on. I hope you’ve got money…” he says a bit wryly.

“Ungrateful,” Marik declares, but indeed he does pay his – his _friend’s_ admittance fee into the museum. He has never been inside before, and somehow it seems like an appropriate moment to see the past, to find where it really belongs – behind him.

 

\- - -

 

 

_Inside the Museum_

 

Bakura is unsure why the Ring brought him to Marik, but one thing becomes abundantly clear. Marik was practically born to be a distraction. Throughout their partnership, he wonders if that has been his greatest usefulness. He follows Marik to the central map and watches him unfold the glossy paper of the directory he takes. He looks over his shoulder as Marik reads, a little too much aloud.

“Which do you want to see first, Bakura?” Marik asks when he has finished. He meets Bakura’s eyes, and in the lower lighting of the indoors, the clarity in them almost puts him aback.

“Er, I… suppose Tutankhamun artifacts are as good a place as any. Get the _banal_ out of the way first,” Bakura replies.

“‘Banal,’” Marik repeats, chuckling under his breath. “Very well,” he announces formally. “This way,” he determines, leading off to his right. Almost immediately, he changes his mind. “I mean this way,” he says, turning to take a more straight path.

Bakura follows Marik through the attractions. He takes careful note of each of the placards that might be small enough. There are items identified as coins, others as jewelry, and bits of papyrus that have decayed beyond any useful recognition.

Marik bumps into his side with a gentle sway over one of the climate-controlled, alarm-rigged sanctums in which the artifacts reside.

“Do you want to tell me?” Marik asks, as if there is some fair play in this interaction.

“Tell you _what_?” Bakura asks.

“About what you’re looking at. I can only _read it_ to you,” Marik explains. He seems to think he has lit upon a wonderful idea. Bakura sighs and shakes his head a little, but he hears the intake of breath which indicates Marik is about to _complain_ at him.

“They’re coins and financial records,” Bakura replies, gesturing with his fingertip to the placard which explains just that in several languages.

“Oh,” Marik says. He sounds disappointed, particularly when he realizes that Bakura is directing his attention to the printed placard. His shoulders droop below the line of his generally impeccable posture. “Well that’s boring.”

“Only when you have enough,” Bakura announces in a low, confident tone.

Marik blinks a few times as if he is considering it. He thinks he has caught his understanding, but Marik abruptly resists. He turns away and heads toward something larger, something shinier. He heads toward a tableau that is affixed to the wall behind a heavy layer of glass. Then, he seems drawn in.

Bakura trudges along, keeping sight of the line of Marik’s back as he meanders over to him while casing the rest of the museum. This modern world has only complicated fulfilling the very need which had gotten him killed. No matter; he will find a way to do it.

“What is it?” he asks without particular gumption when he reaches Marik’s side. He stands one pace behind him.

Marik does not answer immediately. It would almost be a relief if it weren’t for _knowing_ his one-time accomplice. He knows that silence is rarely a good sign. He leans forward to one side a bit, searching for a look at Marik’s eyes. He sees them. Their pupils seem quite large. There is a sharp reflection of light in them.

“Marik,” he says, clearing his throat pointedly. When he does not receive an immediate answer again, he moves in a bit closer, trying to follow the line of Marik’s gaze. He finds what he thinks is the focal point then blinks to take in the art, even if its beauty isn’t quite its value to him. Finally, he realizes what it is that Marik is staring at.

 _Embalming tools_.

His hand lifts up in a movement that feels _borrowed_ and alien. He claps Marik on the back of the shoulder, palm open and not intent on harm.

“ _Don’t_ touch me,” Marik demands. He shies away from it abruptly, rolling his shoulder to get away.

Bakura lifts his hands in surrender.

“Alright, I won’t touch you.”

“Dead,” Marik says to himself.

“Pardon?” Bakura asks.

“Dead!” Marik exclaims, loud enough that it echoes in the ornate hall. Bakura sighs with some contempt for the situation at the very least.

“Oh, lovely,” he grumbles to himself as some men in familiar uniforms walk over to them, demanding quiet or explanation. Bakura steps between the security guards and Marik. This was the job he had been hoping Marik could do for _him_. “Good morning, officers,” he says in the steadiest Arabic he can manage, almost sounding fitted to the time and place. He has had a long time to lie in wait, to listen, to learn. “My… friend here, he… he is quite interested in the burial customs of the ancient Egyptians. He is quite curious about how it relates to his heritage, you see,” he rambles on, hoping to make them bored before they decide to ask any questions.

He glances down at one of Marik’s hands. He notices that it is clenched tightly into a fist. It makes him half-nervous about this whole thing, but a steadier part of him wonders if he might be able to use it after all.

“If he disturbs any of the other visitors, he will have to leave,” one of the security officers warns pointedly.

“Certainly,” Bakura replies with nod and a placid expression. He turns his back to them, placing himself between them and Marik. He isn’t protecting them, but there is always collateral damage. “Marik?” he asks in a low hiss.

Marik’s eyes flit toward his for a second, but then they go back to the artwork. Bakura glances toward his own shoulder and realizes what he needs to do. He steps in front of the tableau, putting the unassuming fabric of his shirt in front of Marik’s gaze instead.

“Who’s dead?” he asks softly as he glances to see that the security guards seem to be losing interest.

“... Me,” Marik replies.

“Don’t be stupid. You’re not dead,” Bakura says, laughing loudly enough that he notices he catches one of the guard’s attention again. He straightens himself and tries cupping Marik’s shoulder again to guide him away from that particular bit of artwork. “I am,” he murmurs secretly to Marik. “Let’s get you over here, away from anything which might… tend to upset you.”

Marik allows himself to be led, and before long, Bakura has led him into a quiet, near-empty gallery with some convenient stairs which he directs Marik to sit down on. As he crouches to make sure he still sees the person he ought to see there, he allows himself a relieved little sneer.

“You’re half-useless, you know,” he remarks. Then he gets to his feet, and just for a moment he uses the top of Marik’s head to brace his rise back to his full height. At least, it would seem that this is the reason he touches the top of his head, but there is hardly any weight there at all.

He ducks off behind Marik, giving him one last glance to see that he is staying in place. If nothing else, he is a scapegoat. Bakura feels fairly confident as he strolls back and finds the place where he can best stick to the shadows, making his way toward an entrance to the store rooms which hold those items not on display. He breathes out, making himself as silent and still as possible. Then he reaches for the Millennium Ring and looks to it for guidance.

 

\- - -

 

_A hotel room, reserved for Ryou Bakura, downtown Cairo - Several hours later._

 

Marik’s head hurts. He thinks it is the only reason he has not stood to his feet and marched right across the plush carpeting beneath them and out the door. He sits on an ottoman, slumped and holding his temples in his hands. It is silent and nearly dark, save for a crack in the thick drapes that cover the windows.

“Stupid…” he murmurs to himself, but he stops when he hears the soft clicking of the door lock and the slightly louder clicking of its opening. He looks up and sees the familiar frame fill the doorway, carrying a bag full of things he had insisted on needing a while ago: soap, something for his headache, shampoo, conditioner, and one of those little single-packs of junk-food hummus and pita crackers.

He stares at the bag, wondering if it truly contains everything he had asked for or if that is some deception, too.

Pushing through the throbbing in his forehead, Marik stands up and strides over to Bakura as soon as the door is closed. There is a fury in his veins, now, and he does not particularly feel like swallowing it anymore. He pushes Bakura’s back to the door by a hand on his throat. It seems like the easiest handhold.

“You _used_ me!” he accuses fiercely. He sees fear in Bakura’s eyes for a moment, and it almost satisfies him.

“Marik, are you—” Bakura starts to ask. He hasn’t pressed hard enough to cause anything but the faintest echo of nervous hoarseness in his throat. He presses just a _little_ harder before Bakura can finish, though. Bakura is looking in him for _something_ again – that something he hadn’t known, then hadn’t understood, and then had finally overcome, _escaped_ from, until Bakura came along again.

Today, in the museum, he wondered if it had ever really gone away at all.

Bakura’s sigh of relief makes him angrier.

“... Now, Marik, I’m sure you and I,” he says, diplomatically in spite of his controlled breath, “can talk about this.”

“Talk about what? About the fact that you convinced me to go into some place that would… tear at my _mind_ again, that you let it _hurt_ me, and then carried right along into your plan to try and set fire to the place!”

“The fire was a distraction, Marik…”

“Shut up!” Marik demands. He pushes harder and hears the first hint of a strangling noise in Bakura’s throat. “It could have _spread_ , and there was no _point_ . You didn’t even tell me what you were looking for! You gave me no _choice_ about whether or not I wanted to help you, and you made me _believe_ it was because you wanted to go _sightseeing_ . That we were _friends_ ,” Marik shouts at him, each increment tightening his hand. He feels some _relief_ in it, and it disturbs him.

He has been at peace for a long time now. He has known the outside world, fresh air, the sun, and nearly anything he has wanted to know or learn. And yet, Bakura comes back and drags him right back into… _this_.

“I don’t think you could _give me_ a reason I shouldn’t—” he continues to rail against Bakura, but then Bakura’s eyes close.

It isn’t an involuntary blink. It is longer. He seems to go from taking a deep breath to struggle against Marik’s hand to going a little limp. Then, a spluttering, coughing noise bubbles up from beneath the surface. When Bakura’s eyes blink rapidly open again, coming into focus and recognizing danger, they look _different_.

Around them, all the facial muscles have started to hold themselves in a different way. They tense much more easily, creating lines that speak not of age or experience but of youth and fear. He looks younger. He looks frightened. His hand comes up and seizes Marik’s wrist, but it is not the hand of one who wants to take the offensive.

“Please… who—” a much softer, differently inflected voice chokes out.

Marik goes still. He doesn’t let go, but he goes still. He waits, his eyes widening and giving their full attention to this new form, this new _person_ before him. He has seen him before. He knows he exists, but he doesn’t _know_ him. He doesn’t know what sort of person bears the Millennium Ring when his ally is dormant inside beyond mere glimpses, playing at a masquerade where he had known his partner.

“Why are you doing this?” Ryou Bakura asks him, determined through a voice that is restrained by Marik’s hand.

It is Marik’s turn to blink faster. He eases up on his grip. He does not quite draw it completely away from the door.

“Are you fooling me?” he demands with a disgusted crinkle of his nose.

“No! I swear,” Ryou replies with a gulp for air.

Then he realizes what must have happened. He looks down at the Ring and glares at it. He wonders if Bakura is aware from within it, because if looks could kill he would have been certain that he had vanquished him in that single moment. His rancor isn’t for this _boy_ , though – a boy in whom he sees something desperately familiar.

He notices movement. He realizes that Ryout is reaching back, fumbling for the door handle. He is trying to make an escape.

With his free hand, Marik reaches out to grab him by the wrist.

“Don’t do that,” he says, but it is much more gentle urging than it is an order.

“... I don’t mean you any harm,” Ryou says. “I just want to get… out of here alive, you understand.”

“I do,” Marik says. He understands what Bakura has done, what bargaining chip he has decided to remind Marik he has to play – to use against him. He knows that Bakura had refused to sacrifice this boy to his _own_ counterpart, and he trusts that Marik will understand the balance this strikes. He trusts his appeal to Marik’s _better nature_ will work. Otherwise, it would be a stupid gamble indeed. “I won’t hurt you. Just don’t walk out that door,” he explains. He nods over toward the large bed at the center of the room behind them. “It is your room, after all. I’ll let you go that way, and I’ll… I’ll stay right here,” he says, offering to switch places with Bakura’s vessel.

He can see Ryou thinking in his eyes. Where his counterpart is so good at concealing his thoughts, Ryou is like watching the inner mechanisms of a clock laid bare. Finally, Ryou nods slightly. He ducks past Marik at once and walks quickly toward the bed. When he sits down, he kicks off his shoes. He sits there in a neat posture, knees rigid and tight against each other. He peers at Marik with a narrowed gaze, holding off on the edge of a true glare.

“Who are you?” Ryou asks. There is a slight pause, and Marik considers how much he should tell him or if he should tell him anything at all. He must wait too long because Ryou softly adds: “... You look familiar.”

Then he knows he has little choice but to give him _something_. He looks down to the floor and crouches to pick up the dropped plastic bag. He rifles through it. Something, but what?

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked it, please leave a kudos. If you liked it a lot, please leave me a comment! I love reading comments so much.


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